


Chop-Chop Wedding

by archea2



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Crack, M/M, Same-Sex Marriage, The Sign of Three Spoilers, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 17:05:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1395709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archea2/pseuds/archea2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The true story behind the prelude to TSOT and Sherlock's "Heeeelp Meeee" texts! </p><p>Written for the Silver Fox Saturday "Well-Groomed" Challenge on Tumblr, celebrating the new laws on sex-same marriage in England, and gifted to WastingYourGum (happy birthday!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chop-Chop Wedding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WastingYourGum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WastingYourGum/gifts).



> (I did some consulting about the title pun, and every English speaker I asked assured me that, unless used with a deliberately insulting purpose, the word "chop-chop" is all right - so here we go.)

 John caught up with him in the stairs, grabbing his arm. While Lestrade’s manly trot had stood him well in many a derring-do chase, it wasn't a patch on John’s ingrained Army jog. (Confer their doomed attempt to run together in Hyde Park on Sundays, never renewed after John lost Greg in the duck pond's whereabouts and spent the next half-hour looking for him while Lestrade unburdened his heart to the ducks about the sad toll of aging. They’d tried football next, then, on Sherlock’s advice, boxing, then, after Donovan had patched them up and given Sherlock a piece of her mind, fishing week-ends – but that's another story.)

 

"…’s he?"gasped  John, saving his breath for the final steps.

 

"…’dea," Greg matched him. He showed John his mobile screen with the fateful text. "I was just busting a bank robbery."

 

"I was busting a bum boil," John said with a tinge of envy. "You, Sherlock! Care to tell us what the big red flag was all about?"

 

Inside their common room, Sherlock had already turned himself into a series of little leaps, rubbing his hands. He stopped before them, licked one finger, raised it in the direction of the open window and beamed approval as a gust of air entered the room. "Helicopter," he deduced, apparently deaf to the accompanying roar. " _Excellent_. Now, if you’ll just…"

 

John slapped the intrusive wrist away. "Nope. No pulse-taking until you’ve explained yourself, Mr Texter-in-Distress."

 

But Sherlock was sniffing them. Well and truly sniffing them, Greg realized, while taking notes one-handedly on his phone. "The endorphine levels are just right," came the proud verdict. "They should suffice to counteract  any potential anxiety for the next hour or so, not forgetting the little bonus of sweat-induced pheromones on Lestrade. Per-fect. John, you _are_ a lucky fellow." Sherlock, who now showed an uncanny resemblence to Nigella Lawson congratulating  herself over a  successful soufflé, checked himself. "Though congratulations are not due before twelve."

 

"But –"

 

"I myself provided the parachutes for your dashing entrance. I don’t trust the Met ressources, not after that new budget cut-down."

 

"And where," John asked, "are we to make our dashing entrance? Notice I'm not even asking why." He took Greg’s hand and gave it a consolatory squeeze. Greg still looked as if he was trying out mouth-to-mouth ressuscitation on the Invisible Man.

 

"Major Sholto’s house, obviously. It cannot be entered without a series of _extremely_ tedious proceedings, so we’re taking an air shortcut. He was very enthusiastic about hosting that little do, John. Said to give you James’s love, and he’d be glad of a chance to reminisce about those torrid nights in the Gambir Jungle, and how you sucked his ankle for some reason or other."

 

"What do?" from John to Sherlock neatly crossed the air with "Who’s James?" from Greg to John.

 

"Your wedding do," Sherlock explained with uncharacteristic patience. "It’s a mechoui, by the way. Lestrade likes barbecue, you like fire, and both of you are allergic to sitting down more than fifteen minutes without dealing with an emergency. So that seemed the ideal plan. I’ll be in charge."

 

"Ideal," Greg echoed faintly. Then he frowned. "But why would you suck his ankle?"

 

But John was still trying to disentangle the human cat’s-craddle that was Sherlock Holmes in his Hour of Goodness.

 

"You can’t manhandle us into some crazy scheme of yours, Sherlock. You know very well our wedding is to take place next week at Harry’s place. The invites have been sent. Our parents will be there, Greg’s and mine, his team, all our friends. Yeah, we nominated you as our best man and we’re both glad you said yes, but yes doesn't mean a blank cheque on whatever whim can ensure you access to the military -"  and here, John’s stern homiletics had to pause, both at Sherlock’s silent face and Lestrade’s repeated cough.

 

"John…that chopper’s still revving. If you give me a sec, I’ll just call it off and –"

 

"No," Sherlock said, his wonted steel-in-velvet tones growing steelier. "That’s what Lestrade and yourself have brainwashed each other into thinking, when you hate and fear the whole caboodle. It’s the committment you want, not the compulsory meringue festival. Your true friends can be counted on the fingers of one hand; the rest are acquaintances who no longer know who you are and don’t give a damn if you’re getting hooked or crooked. Lestrade hates crowds, hates having to answer questions, smile, shake hands for occasion's sake. Oh, and champagne makes him belch."

 

"Ta for the sales pitch, mate,"  Lestrade muttered, while John, who had fallen back on his strong silent routine, worked his mouth speechlessly.

 

"Wait," he said at last. "What about Father Ruffles? You can’t parachute a sixty-year-old vicar from a helicopter, Sherlock. That’s not cricket."

 

"Not that the boys would let him aboard in the first place," Greg added.

 

"I doubt very much they will ban _this_ minister." Sherlock checked his watch, as another, less hurried step was heard at the door. "Ah, brother. Mrs Hudson. Mrs – Mrs Turner, _what did I say about hats?_ "

 

"I’ll keep me hand on it! All the way down!" Mrs Turner pleaded, while John and Lestrade gaped at Mycroft’s majestic figure. His long sleek form looked even sleeker when paraded in the black silk cassock which hugged him from neck to toes.

 

"John. Detective Inspector. I may, during our somewhat spaced-out meetings, have omitted to mention that I also hold a minor position in the Church of England."

 

"Jesus," Greg blurted out.

 

"Not _that_ minor." Mycroft smiled sourly. "May I congratulate you both on the happy event I’m about to bring on, and my brother on his…very persuasive arguments."

 

More people had entered the room : Molly, Mike Stamford (clutching an airbag backpack), a few Chosen among Sherlock’s homeless network and Lestrade’s most faithful retainers, among whom Sally Donovan, who tipped him a cheery wink.

 

"No harm done, boss. I told Jones this was your wedding day, and he's insisting on letting you take the credit. In fact, you're making the eleven news on Radio Met, beating even the Waters Gang."

 

"You see? You always worry too much," Sherlock said in what sounded to Greg outrageously paternal tones. "I trust you asked for maximum back-up, by the way? Of course you did. Now, will everyone kindly proceed to the window, then out and up the ladder, we really can't stretch the agenda any further. There will be room for all and vodka and zakouskis on our way."

 

Mycroft had already hooked his umbrella to the rope ladder. He turned and opened his mouth.

 

"Yes, yes." Sherlock waved him on testily. "I’ll have a little talk with Magnussen about those pics of Lady Smallwood and the therapeutic spanking the moment you’ve blessed them. Shoo. Now, as for your shag night –"

 

"Not our demesne," Mycroft said loftily, and followed his brolly out of the window.

 

"Sherlock." John had found his voice again. "Please tell me you're referring to the stag night, which technically _precedes_ the whole caboodle. If not, don’t. Greg, stop laughing."

 

"It’s my wedding day!" Lestrade protested. "My made-in-Holmes wedding day! Me, I feel quite up to a laugh."

 

Mycroft could be heard muttering something about rescuing Sherlock from the paperwork, and Lestrade being less amused if he knew how close a chance he’d stood to be Mrs Gruff Watson for the rest of his civil life. None of the others heeded him.

 

"That website did look a bit shady." And Sherlock himself looked a fair bit discomfited. "All right, I’ll call off Suggestivetongue from Hackney. I – I’m really sorry about this. Perhaps I should have left it to a more expert –"

 

"No. God, no." Lestrade’s smile could have dazzled the entire borough. "You’ve been brilliant, Sherlock. Like always."

 

"Really?" And Sherlock’s eyes shifted on to John.

 

"Sherlock." John’s voice was as firm as in the hub of danger. "Look at this man. Look well at him. He's my friend, my lover, my supporting officer, as I am his. I’d marry him in the middle of arsewhere as long as he showed up next to me in the aisle. Hell, I was ready to marry him in Harry’s piss awful posh house, with half of our relatives sending last-minute excuses and a fushia colour theme. And now? This is the best day of my life and I can’t thank you enough."

 

"Copy, paste," Lestrade said. "You're my fella, John Watson, and I can't wait to marry you. In a chopper. Oh, come here, you two."

 

This was when the agenda did get stretched quite a bit, but no one, not even Sherlock, thought of complaining.


End file.
